“This? Well, one of your clothiers seemed to believe he was taking pity on me; he offered such a bargain I could not in good conscience refuse. This is by far the longest I’ve ever been in Camorr; I decided I might as well attempt to blend in.”
“How splendid!”
“Yes, it is,” said Don Salvara, who strolled in fastening the buttons of his own coat cuffs. “Much better than your black Vadran prisoner’s outfits. Don’t get me wrong-they’re quite the thing for a northern clime, but down here they look like they’re trying to strangle the wearer. Now, Lukas, what’s the status of all the money we’ve been spending?”
“One galleon is definitely ours,” said Locke. “I have a crew and a suitable cargo; I’ll supervise the loading myself over the next few days. It will be ready to depart next week. And I have a promising lead on a second to accompany it, ready within the same time frame.”
“A promising lead,” said Doña Sofia, “is not quite the same as ‘definitely ours,’ unless I am very much mistaken.”
“You are not, Doña Sofia.” Locke sighed and attempted to look as though he were ashamed to bring up the issue once again. “There is some question…That is, the captain of the second vessel is being tempted by an offer to carry a special cargo to Balinel-a relatively long voyage but for a very decent price. He has, as yet, to commit to my offers.”
“And I suppose,” said Don Lorenzo as he took a seat beside his wife, “that a few thousand more crowns might need to be thrown at his feet to make him see reason?”
“I fear very much, my good Don Salvara, that shall be the case.”
“Hmmm. Well, we can speak of that in a moment. Here’s Conté; I should quite like to show off what my lady has newly accomplished.”
Conté carried three silver bowls on a brass platter; each bowl held half an orange, already sliced so the segments of flesh within the fruit could be drawn out with little two-pronged forks. Conté set a bowl, a fork, and a linen napkin down on the tree-shelf to Locke’s right. The Salvaras looked at him expectantly while their own orange halves were laid out.
Locke worked very hard to conceal any trepidation he might have felt; he took the bowl in one hand and fished out a wedge of orange flesh with the fork. When he set it on his tongue, he was surprised at the tingling warmth that spread throughout his mouth. The fruit was saturated with something alcoholic.
“Why, it’s been suffused with liquor,” he said, “something very pleasant. An orange brandy? A hint of lemon?”
“Not suffused, Lukas,” said Don Lorenzo with a boyish grin that had to be quite genuine. “These oranges have been served in their natural state. Sofia ’s tree manufactures its own liquor and mingles it in the fruit.”
“Sacred Marrows,” said Locke. “What an intriguing hybrid! To the best of my knowledge, it has yet to be done with citrus…”
“I only arrived at the correct formulation a few months ago,” said Sofia, “and some of the early growths were quite unfit for the table. But this one seems to have gone over well. Another few generations of tests, and I shall be very confident of its marketability.”
“I’d like to call it the Sofia,” said Don Lorenzo. “The Sofia orange of Camorr-an alchemical wonder that will make the vintners of Tal Verrar cry for their mothers.”
“I, for my part, should like to call it something else,” said Sofia, playfully slapping her husband on his wrist.
“The Planting Masters,” said Locke, “will find you quite as wondrous as your oranges, my lady. It is as I said: perhaps there is more opportunity in our partnership than any of us have foreseen. The way you seem to make every green thing around you malleable…I daresay that the character of the House of bel Auster for the next century could be shaped more by your touch than by our old Emberlain traditions.”
“You flatter me, Master Fehrwight,” said the doña. “But let us not count our ships before they’re in harbor.”
“Indeed,” said Don Lorenzo. “And on that note, I shall return us to business. Lukas, I fear I have unfortunate news for you. Unfortunate, and somewhat embarrassing. I have had…several setbacks in recent days. One of my upriver debtors has reneged on a large bill; several of my other projections have proven to be overly optimistic. We are, in short, not as fluid at the moment as any of us might hope. Our ability to throw a few thousand more crowns into our mutual project is very much in doubt.”
“Oh,” said Locke. “That is…that is, as you say, unfortunate.”
He slid another orange slice into his mouth and sucked at the sweet liquor, using it as an artificial stimulus to tilt the corners of his lips upward, quite against his natural inclination.
2
ON THE waterfront of the Dregs, a priest of Aza Guilla glided from shadow to shadow, moving with a slow and patient grace that belied his size.
The mist tonight was thin, the damp heat of the summer night especially oppressive. Streams of sweat ran down Jean’s face behind the silver mesh of his Sorrowful Visage. Camorri lore held that the weeks before the Midsummer-mark and the Day of Changes were always the hottest of the year. Out on the water, the now-familiar yellow lamps glimmered; shouts and splashes could be heard as the men aboard the Satisfaction hauled out another boat full of “charitable provisions.”
Jean doubted he could learn anything more about the items going out on those boats unless he did something more obvious, like attacking one of the loading crews-and that would hardly do. So tonight he’d decided to focus his attention on a certain warehouse about a block in from the docks.
The Dregs weren’t quite as far gone as Ashfall, but the place was well on its way. Buildings were falling down or falling sideways in every direction; the entire area seemed to be sinking down into a sort of swamp of rotted wood and fallen brick. Every year the damp ate a little more of the mortar between the district’s stones, and legitimate business fled elsewhere, and more bodies turned up loosely concealed under piles of debris-or not concealed at all.
While prowling in his black robes, Jean had noticed gangs of Raza’s men coming and going from the warehouse for several nights in a row. The structure was abandoned but not yet uninhabitable, as its collapsed neighbors were. Jean had observed lights burning behind its windows almost until dawn, and parties of laborers coming and going with heavy bags over their shoulders, and even a horse-cart or two.
But not tonight. The warehouse had previously been a hive of activity, and tonight it was dark and silent. Tonight it seemed to invite his curiosity, and while Locke was off sipping tea with the quality, Jean aimed to pry into Capa Raza’s business.
There were ways to do this sort of thing, and they involved patience, vigilance, and a great deal of slow walking. He went around the warehouse block several times, avoiding all contact with anyone on the street, throwing himself into whatever deep darkness was at hand and keeping his silver mask tucked under his arm to hide the glare. Given enough shadow, even a man Jean’s size could be stealthy, and he was certainly light enough on his feet.
Circling and sweeping, circling and sweeping; he established to his satisfaction that none of the roofs of nearby buildings held concealed watchers, and that there were no street-eyes either. Of course, he thought to himself as he pressed his back up against the southern wall of the warehouse, they could just be better than I am.
“Aza Guilla, have a care,” he mumbled as he edged toward one of the warehouse doors. “If you don’t favor me tonight, I’ll never be able to return this fine robe and mask to your servants. Just a consideration, humbly submitted.”